


Solitary

by Sulla



Series: Games of Chance [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-30
Updated: 2011-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulla/pseuds/Sulla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock realizes that he's lacking in a certain area of his education, and asks John to assist him.</p><p>This is the first fic in a series of three complete fics that can be read independantly or together.  They are for Jomk for her generous donation to the Australian RSPCA to help with the recent floods.  I hope you enjoy this, and the two to come!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solitary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jomk on Livejournal.](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jomk+on+Livejournal.).



"Look. The security guard leaves his post, and enters the WC, only to come out fifteen minutes later, as seen on the security footage. What on earth could he have been doing all that time? Not even the bowel movement from hell would take that long."

John stared at the back of Sherlock's head as he replayed the footage over and over again on the monitor. He knew what the detective was seeing, having watched it several times himself. The guard gets up. Leaves his station. Enters the toilet. Fifteen minutes of timecode pass in fast-forward mode, then the guard reappears on screen, exiting the toilet, returning to his station, checking his own montitors, only to freeze at what he sees in the bottom screen - the sudden lack of a rare jewel from its display case. He picks up the telephone and makes a call. The video repeats.

"...you don't...Sherlock. Do you honestly mean to say that you can't think of a single thing that the man might have been doing in the toilet for all that time?"

Sherlock turned and stared back at him, and then flicked his gaze to D.I. Lestrade as the man snorted loudly, having caught on to what John was saying.

"What?" Sherlock asked defensively.

John and Lestrade exchanged a look and the latter laughed. "I suddenly see a gap in your all-encompassing knowledge, Sherlock."

"What do you mean?"

John cleared his throat, shuffling his feet awkwardly, and Lestrade quickly excused himself from the monitoring room, suddenly very interested in re-investigating the actual site of the jewel theft.

"I meant, Sherlock, that the man was probably having a wank."

Sherlock stared at John blankly. "...a...wank."

John's face began to colour under the glare of grey eyes, which he dearly hoped was covered by the fact that the room was lit only by the bank of flickering monitor screens. Sherlock didn't look embarrassed in the slightest, though, and his face took on the air of someone smelling something altogether unpleasant.

"Typical of security personnel - the most valuable diamond currently in Britain, stolen while the man guarding it was engaging in an appalling, altogether useless exercise in self-abuse."

John scowled. "Self...what? Self _abuse_? What century are we in, Sherlock?" he queried, amazed at this dated opinion.

Sherlock glared at John. "You know how I feel about wasting time, John. And what is more of a waste of time than... than _masturbation_?"

"What - surely you do it occasionally yourself, Sherlock? Everyone does!" stuttered John.

"I assure you, John, not _everyone_ masturbates. After all, it is only my brain that is of any value or relevance - everything else is only transport."

John flicked his eyes up towards the ceiling for a moment, begging the heavens to give him patience. "Sherlock," he started, slightly embarrassed, but ever professional, "masturbation is a perfectly normal, natural, healthy recreational activity. Granted, one shouldn't shirk responsibilities in favour of the pursuit of personal pleasure, as in this case, but it's not like it is unnatural that a man should find himself bored, or stressed, and finds that he needs to relieve the pressure."

Sherlock snorted in derision.

"...after all," John continued, " _nearly_ everyone does it. Even I, on occasion, have been known to... well, I haven't been _known_ to..." he shifted his feet uncomfortably. "Yes, well, nearly everyone masturbates, even me."

At this, Sherlock seems to have been struck silent. He stared at John, their eyes locking in contact for what seemed to John like an age, and then only ceased when John himself looked away, staring at the bank of monitors with renewed interest. When he flicked his eyes back, it was to find Sherlock's gaze wandering over his lower body, traveling back up to his face.

Sherlock looked... well, he looked _intrigued_. John closed his eyes for a moment, counted to ten, and reopened them, only to find that the other man had turned away and was heading for the door. John breathed sigh of relief.

*****

Some days later, after a suspenseful but ultimately successful conclusion to the case of the missing Darya-ye Noor Diamond, which had been on loan to the British Museum from Tehran. John was finishing typing the matter up for his blog. He had managed to skip over the part where Sherlock had missed what most people would have considered a natural step in logic - man spends too much time alone in the WC, what could the man be doing, if not wanking? - and had focused instead upon the incredible feats of deduction that Sherlock had demonstrated to them, leading them to finding the missing gem in the stool of one of the resident lions at the London Zoo, just a short distance away from their own home on Baker street, in Regent's Park.

He hit "submit", checked that his post had gone through correctly, and then powered off the computer. Glancing across the room to where Sherlock was sprawled out rather artistically on the sofa, reading a book dubiously labeled _Distinction of Spore in Sub-saharan Mammals_ , he addressed the man saying, "Well, I'm off to bed now."

Sherlock didn't even look up. "Sleep well."

John grunted, pausing only to pick up his few pages of notes, putting them together to package away with his stack of case notes that was developing rapidly in his room upstairs. He was about to leave the room when he heard Sherlock speak again.

"Do you plan to masturbate tonight?"

John paused in motion, mid-step. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, turning to stare at the detective. He had not even looked up from his book. But now he did so, saving his page with a sheet of notepaper and setting it aside. Before answering, he steepled his fingers together and brought the tips up to his nose in his typical 'thinking' pose.

"My knowledge in such matters is lacking. If you indeed plan to masturbate tonight, I would be most appreciative if you would allow me to observe."

John spluttered helplessly, staring everywhere but at his flatmate, and finally coming to the conclusion of, "absolutely not! I'm straight, have you forgotten?"

Sherlock locked eyes with him. "In fact, that was never established, John. But I don't see how this is related to your sexual orientation. I am simply asking to observe, not to engage or even partake of the solitary pleasure myself. It is up to you who you think about while touching yourself."

John's eyes were close to rolling up in his head, and he held his hands up as if to bar Sherlock from coming closer, even thought he had not even sat up from the sofa. "Good god, Sherlock, do you not realize how inappropriate it is to ask another man that?"

Sherlock snorted. "I care little for what may be 'inappropriate' or not. I care only for the pursuit of my studies to guide me in future cases."

John thought this over. The man did indeed lack essential knowledge. Maybe he should... wait, no.

"Sherlock, have you thought about trying it yourself? Alone? That would be the best way for you to experience the matter..."

Sherlock sniffed haughtily. "That is hardly the scientific method for observation." He paused. "After all, I tried. Didn't work."

John made a face. He knew he should quit while he was ahead, but the comment was just weird enough that he had to know. "'Didn't work'? How did it 'not work'?"

A pause.

"I failed to see the attraction. And failed to sustain an erec-"

"OK, stop there. Yes. Just stop, I don't want to know." John rubbed his eyes with his fingertips and finally paused, palm to his face. "Fine. Fine, you can watch, just this once. But you have to be quiet so I can pretend you're not there!"

Sherlock's face, which had remained bland and blank throughout, slightly lifted in a tiny grin. "Excellent."

 

*****

Sherlock was sitting in the chair in the corner of John's room when he returned from the toilet in his pyjamas. John scowled to himself. What on earth had he gotten himself into? He pulled back the covers to his bed, climbed in, and reached for the lamp beside the bed to shut it off.

"Leave it on."

John paused mid-movement again. "You've got to be kidding. I have to do it in the light?"

"I won't be able to see with the light off. How else am I to observe? And take notes?"

"What? Take _notes_?" he saw that indeed, Sherlock had a pad of paper in one hand, a pen in the other. How on earth had he missed that when he'd first walked in? "No. No, absolutely not. You can take mental notes, Sherlock, and I need the light off."

Sherlock put the notebook and pen aside, but demanded that the light stay on.

"Fine. Fine, I'll leave the light on. But stop talking."

Silence in response. Good.

John plumped up a pillow and placed it behind his back, then rested against it, careful not to even lay eyes on the dark shape in the corner, let alone meet eyes with it. He took a couple of deep, even breaths, being careful to focus on himself and his sensations, not on the obvious foreign presence. With one final breath he reached his hand down overtop of his pyjama bottoms, and was somewhat surprised to find that he was already half-hard. He palmed himself thoughtfully, applying pressure all along the underside, teasing himself. Maybe this wasn't going to be as difficult as he'd thought? Finally he pushed all sentient thought aside, and focused on the sensations in his body, and upon the stockpile of thoughts, visions and scenarios which he harboured in his head for the purpose of self-pleasure.

Breasts. Large, firm, perky, with dusky nipples. Pliable under his lips. Trailing down a flat belly, intoxicated by the subtle aroma of-- Sherlock. Bugger!

He opened one eye, barely, hoping that Sherlock would not catch him looking. The other man was seated primly in his seat, watching carefully. Oh god, this was going to be hard. Or possibly not hard enough. Fuck. He refocused his mind, and tried again.

Long, dark hair. Long, slim body, long, hard cock. Fuck. Straight, damnit! he yelled at himself internally. He focused carefully on his most recent mental scenerios that he'd dreamed up of Sarah, a mish-mash of prior experiences with other women, images from porn, and details of the woman herself, such as her voice and aroma. He hardened further, and with his eyes firmly shut, he finally eased down his pyjama bottoms so that they were lodged around his thighs, freeing his hard cock and balls for his perusal. And for Sherlock's viewing.

A surge of arousal crashed through him at this final thought. Oh god, Sherlock watching. And John was so hard... He wrapped one hand around his cock and began to stroke it, moving up to play with his foreskin and back down again to squeeze at the base. Realizing he was missing something, John reached his hand out to the night table and reached in the drawer, pulling out a small tube of lubricant he kept secreted there. He heard slight rustling in the corner as Sherlock shifted minutely. John ignored it, and kept his eyes closed, squeezing out a dollop of lube onto his hand in the dark behind his eyelids, and tossed the tube aside onto the bedsheets.

Warming the gel in his hand, John finally applied it to his erection, working hard to contain a groan at the delicious sensation. I really made all the difference, a little bit of lube... his hand slipped up his length quicker and easier, his foreskin covered the glans, then exposed it, then covered it again.

The images of Sarah opening her legs to him morphed into thoughts of Sherlock watching him. And this time it didn't put him off in the slightest. The man was _watching_ him, his eyes on John's cock, catching every movement of his hand, every slip and slide of his skin on skin. John reached down with one hand and massaged his balls, this time unable to keep his low groan to himself. He almost jumped at the noise he himself had made, and his eyes flicked open just for a second.

His brain took a moment to really register what he had seen. Sherlock was now leaning back in his seat, eyes glinting in the lamplight, a conspicuous tenting occurring in his pyjama bottoms. Could it be... could it be that Sherlock was aroused? Aroused because of _John_? After all, the man had said he had been unable to maintain an erection on his own...

These thoughts and the singular vision that Sherlock presented to him inflamed him further. His hand picked up the pace to the point that he was wanking himself off fervently, thrusting his hips into his own hands. The sound of skin on wet skin was lewd to his ears. He fondled one testicle and then the next, finally lifting his sack up and slipping fingers down to put pressure against his perineum. The long, low moan he made this time was a sound that he actually allowed his body to make. Again his eyes flicked open for just a second or two, his eyelashes hopefully covering the fact that he was looking.

Had he just seen what he thought he'd seen? The tenting in Sherlock's trousers was now pronounced, and a damp stain was visible at the tip of it. His hands were clenched on the arms of the chair, and his hips were working up and down, seemingly of their own accord. John yanked almost desperately on his dick, and just as he reached orgasm, he heard the other man gasp aloud. It was enough for John already, and that sound pitched him over the edge. His cock spurted several times, spewing his semen up in stripes of white liquid over his belly and chest. The sensation was sublime, the spasms and contractions of the orgasms causing him to groan helplessly in rhythm with his release. Finally he sighed, letting his body lie back on the pillow, breathing hard. He opened his eyes, and what he saw was frankly shocking.

Sherlock was slouched down into the chair, hair mussed, eyes flashing, pyjama bottoms visibly _damp_. He looked... stunned.

John couldn't help it, and he laughed aloud. "Was it good for you?" he asked, reaching for the box of tissues by the side of the bed. He took out a couple for himself and tossed the box over to Sherlock, who caught it one-handed.

The man suddenly looked shifty-eyed.

"I'll have to get back to you on that, John. Thank you, and goodnight."

John watched in amazement as the man rushed from the room, tissue box still in-hand. What on _earth_ was that about? It occursed to him that perhaps something like that had never happened to Sherlock, and he had actually just laughed at him. Crap.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," he called after the fleeing man, "I didn't mean to laugh..."

Silence from below. Oh well, John thought, they'd talk about it in the morning.

But in the morning, Sherlock wasn't there.

*****


End file.
